Mediterranean Seduction. Кэрол Мортимер
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as surely as if he really had been a figment of her imagination. The only proof he had ever existed lay in the fact that her pyjamas had been moved from the beach, where she had thrown them, to a rocky shelf protruding from the cliff-face. Relief and disappointment swept over her in turn until, remembering the fishing boat moored close by the shore, she snatched up her clothes and crawled between the rocks to get dressed.
Iannis climbed soundlessly and with the ease of long practice. Reaching for one final handhold, he swung himself over the cliff-edge and sprang to his feet.
Who was she? From his vantage point high above the beach he could see little more than the top of the young woman’s head. He watched as she flicked the water-slicked hair away from her face with the fast, fluid movements of a dancer.
He was forced to acknowledge that she had a graceful carriage, and gave a reluctant smile as he remembered how high and proud she had held her head when she emerged from behind her rock shelter. Not quite like Aphrodite from the waves—she was too rebellious for that—but just as beautiful. But she appeared utterly unconcerned by her actions, and that made him angry. If he had stayed behind to make something of the encounter, what then? Would she have remained so brazen?
A muscle ground in his jaw as he turned to go. Why should he care?
Because not only did she irritate him, she intrigued him, he realised, starting to move away from the edge. There was something undeniably provocative about a beautiful woman prepared to face him down. The way she flaunted herself was a challenge he couldn’t ignore: it urged him to test her boundaries. Perhaps she had none. Perhaps he would make it his business to find out. But first he had to find out who she was. Someone would be able to tell him: Iskos was a small island, and very few tourists came to visit in the autumn.
Before leaving he turned to watch her walking rapidly across the beach. She was making for the cliff path that led up towards the villa she must be renting. His eyes narrowed. She would have to come almost right past him if he stayed where he was.
There was something strangely vulnerable about her now, in contrast to the impression she had given down on the beach, Iannis realised, feeling his interest stir. Her pyjamas were wet with seawater and clumped wetly around her ankles—was that it?
As he continued to watch his mouth firmed. Had she never heard of swimming costumes? Or was it just too much trouble to put one on? Either way, it showed scant regard for the traditions of Iskos, where single women didn’t even go out unescorted, let alone bathe naked in the sea. Thank God she was no concern of his!
He made to go, then stopped again. Theos! She had the most provocative figure he had seen in a long time. It might not be fashionable to possess such well-shaped thighs, or such buttocks, but her lush curves defied fashion. And her breasts—! Iannis swung away, determined to push the troubling image aside.
But it was already too late. The face and form of the mystery woman were branded on his mind. She was a voluptuous temptress who had curled around his senses and left a calling card of desire, he realised, feeling his appetite sharpen. And he would call on her, he decided, slowing as he reached the fragrant shade of the pine trees. She was clearly a player—and if she was looking for a playmate he could certainly accommodate her. But at a time of his own choosing, not hers.
They were within yards of each other now, but Iannis had the cover of the trees to his advantage. The subterfuge gave him no satisfaction. When he saw a woman he liked he moved fast and in the open. But something about this one stood between them like an invisible barrier. Maybe the vulnerability he had sensed earlier. Whatever it was, it prevented him from confronting her as effectively as if she had used an army to keep them apart.
Or maybe he was just growing soft, Iannis thought, and his hard mouth firmed in a cynical line. And that would never do.
Marianna, who tended to the villa Charlotte was renting, was busy pegging out washing when Charlotte arrived back. Turning, hands on hips, to survey the young English visitor, she said sternly, ‘Why must you go to the beach undressed?’
All Charlotte cared about was that she was back, and in one piece. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she promised fervently, meaning every word. She had certainly learned her lesson! ‘But I’m not undressed, Marianna,’ she felt compelled to explain. ‘I’m wearing my pyjamas—’
Marianna threw up her hands in dismay. ‘And what about the fishermen?’
‘Fishermen?’ Charlotte affected innocence, but she felt her face heating up. ‘You knew about them?’
‘And you saw them,’ Marianna stated with confidence. ‘And, more importantly, they saw you.’ She wagged one blunt-nailed finger at Charlotte as she spoke. ‘It is not done here on Iskos. Next time I shall accompany you.’
Charlotte knew the admonishment was well meant, but hurried to change the subject. ‘Here—let me help you with that,’ she offered. Dipping down to pick something out of the loaded basket, she extracted a damp pillowcase, which Marianna promptly removed from her hands.
‘Did any of them speak to you?’ the older woman managed through a mouthful of pegs.
Marianna was not going to let the subject rest, Charlotte realised. ‘There was one man.’
‘Taller than the rest?’
‘Larger than life,’ Charlotte agreed with some irony, realising as she spoke that it was absolutely true. But Marianna’s sudden stillness rang a warning bell. ‘Do you know who I mean?’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘If we’re both talking about the same man…’ Charlotte hesitated, and saw from Marianna’s face that they were. ‘A little,’ she admitted cautiously. ‘Why? Do you know him?’
But Marianna, exclaiming in Greek under her breath, seemed in no mood to answer questions.
‘What’s wrong Marianna?’ Charlotte prompted. She had to know. In fact, she wanted to mine Marianna’s brain for every scrap of information about the fisherman.
‘The fishermen made their decision to come here only this morning, or I would have warned you,’ Marianna said at last. ‘The weather is unusually warm for the time of year. It brought the fish to this part of the island.’
‘But why should it matter if I saw the fishermen?’
‘Fishermen? Bah!’ Marianna exclaimed. ‘Fisherman,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose for emphasis.
‘Yes?’ Charlotte prompted eagerly.
‘I must get on,’ Marianna said briskly. ‘Your breakfast is waiting on the terrace.’ And she turned her back, leaving Charlotte in no doubt that the conversation was over.
Faced by such an uncommunicative expanse of Greek matriarchal back, Charlotte was forced to concede defeat. ‘I’ll take a shower before I eat,’ she said, almost thinking aloud.
She would wash all the salt from her body and the memory of the fisherman from her mind. Then she would slip into some fresh clothes and bring her camera back to the terrace, just in case she felt like taking some background shots for the article. At least that way she would have accomplished something positive as far as work was concerned—because time was running out, she reminded herself.
He was there! She could hardly believe it. Right below her on the beach, hauling nets with the other men, clearly distinguishable because he was at least a head taller than the rest.
If this was what came with loss of privacy on the stretch of beach below her villa, she was all for it, Charlotte mused as she adjusted the focus on her camera.
The delicious breakfast Marianna had prepared for her lay forgotten on the plate as Charlotte clicked away furiously. She must get some shots of the other men too, she reminded herself, and the scenery. She took those as quickly as she could, and then zoomed in again to focus on her prime target—the broad sweep of sun-bronzed shoulders shown off to perfection beneath a faded blue vest. She couldn’t help noticing